Midday Interlude
by bkppr1066
Summary: A quiet family afternoon.


**Midday Interlude**

**A/N: This is a little different. I mostly write in dialogue; here it's all narrative, which is an experiment for me. Call this an exercise. And, like all exercises, it should be evaluated and critiqued. SO...please review and comment! I really need feedback on this one.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Jane and Maura (Oh how I wish...). all other characters are my own. **

I hold my Mother's dry hand. Mama and I have just given her her lunch – tea, a little toast, an orange. About what her digestive system can handle. I must have been listening when the topic of stroke came up my second year; I can appreciate that Mother is beset by nausea, and has a hard time holding down food, even though her aphasia makes it very difficult to tell us when she feels sick. I hold her left hand. The stroke affected the left side of her brain and her right side is mostly useless. She's regained some control of her facial muscles, but her right arm and leg are unresponsive. Fortunately she's always been strongly left-handed, so she can feed herself.

I watch her face for signs that she understands what Mama and I are saying. Aphasia can affect speech, or comprehension, or both, and the doctors at the hospital in Nice are still unsure if she can interpret language or not. Her therapist, Madame Renard, believes that she does comprehend, but perhaps only English; her French and Italian might be gone. We still don't know.

I look at Mother, wondering if I will look like that when I am seventy-seven. I am her genetic daughter, from her egg, and I share her olive skin and (curses) her dark, unruly hair; I am tall, but something from my unknown father has caused me to be more voluptuous than Mother. Mark likes the way I look, and I guess his is the only opinion that counts at this point. Will I have the seamed lines, the smile wrinkles deeply etched at the corners of my eyes, the slate-gray hair, the gnarled hands?

And will Mark still look at me with the overflowing love that Mama looks at her?

I so wish Mark could have come to France with me. He and Mother get along so well and he was deeply saddened when Mama called about Mother's stroke. But his company has him slogging in some mine out in Colorado or somewhere, and I had to go alone. He might come over in a few days, if he can complete the survey quickly. I think we'll also talk about him seeking employment elsewhere, after this.

I make the sign for "I love you", and say it in English and French, hoping that one of these will get through and be understood. Mother smiles and squeezes my hand, gives me what we recognize as a smile. She may not understand the language, but perhaps she reads my expression.

That hand is still strong. That hand once handled a firearm expertly, wrestled with criminals, consoled grieving relatives. That hand still lovingly strokes Mama's cheek, smoothes Mama's hair, takes Mama's hand. That hand, those eyes, still telegraph the love she holds for Mama. My parents were never shy about that; they never hesitated to show their love for each other in front of David and I. Oh, I think Mother was a little less eager to engage in the intimate teasing that Mama so enjoyed, in our presence; but it was always clear that theirs was a deeply physical relationship, as well as emotional, giving, and caring.

I love them both, and am so thankful that I was lucky to be their daughter. And am _very _thankful that my upbringing makes _my_ marriage so uninhibited.

We all learned to sign for David. Mother and Mama adapted so well that sometimes I almost forgot that David was profoundly deaf. It was a neurological condition, not correctable by surgery; So we adjusted our household around it. I was four years older than David, and became his mentor and protector when Mother and Mama weren't around. He would be bullied, sometimes, over his deafness or the composition of our family, and because David was small for his age; but that only happened once per bully. I inherited Mother's protective streak, too. The bullying soon stopped because word got around that David's sister was a nasty bitch and not to be messed with. I was quite proud of that reputation.

I look at Mama, who is looking – adoringly – at Mother. Her face is still smooth, at seventy-six, probably because she was fanatical about skin care all her life. Mother considered such products "froo-froo", (her word) but didn't seem to mind the effect they produced on Mama. Her once-golden hair, which I remember from my childhood, is now a brilliant silver-white. She wears it short, because the arthritis in her hands makes hair care a painful chore. There was a time, when I was a young teen, when I so envied her her locks, that I was bitterly angry that I had come from Mother's egg, not Mama's. Mother and I actually fought about that. Truly. Like most thirteen-year-old obsessions, it faded, but I still felt that Mama was the most beautiful woman in the world.

As well as one of the smartest. I owe my M.D. to her inspiration. Since I was little a doctor is all I ever wanted to be, because I wanted to be like Mama. And David doted on Mother. She taught him the same drive, the same unrelenting ambition, that made her the youngest, and the first woman, homicide detective in Boston. And that, and his brains, have earned him a post as an "information specialist" for the FBI's counterterrorism unit. I don't know what he does; he doesn't talk about it. I don't think he's allowed to. I do know he carries a gun.

As I'm clearing the lunch dishes, there's a knock at the door. Mama starts to rise, slowly, but I tell her I'll get it. "_Pouvez-vous?", _she asks. "_Oui_", I respond.

Mama has had both hips replaced, eleven years ago, before they retired to France. She still has difficulty standing, and she regrets no longer being able to run. Almost every joint in her body is arthritic, and, even with the modern anti-inflammatory drugs, she is still in some pain.

I long to move here, to be able to care for both of them. My contract at Berkeley still has two years to run; then perhaps, some hospital in the area of Nice will have need of a pediatric surgeon. But Mark would have to find work, also. And he does not speak French. Yet.

Truth be told, my French is nothing to write home about. I began learning the language at Mama's knee since I began to talk, but I could never master the accent, and in the years of my medical studies it's decayed from lack of use. Oh, I can get along, but sometimes it's halting.

The caller is Monsieur Picot, one of the two village bakers, with a large bouquet of roses and two loaves of fresh bread. In this small village, everyone knows everyone, and my parents are somewhat renown as the_ impairs__dames américaines, _the odd American ladies, said with affection and gratitude; when they moved here, Mama used some of her money to set up a local clinic, so that the citizens would not have to travel to Nice for routine medical services. Since Mother's stroke, the entire village has showered them with flowers, food, and services such as garden-tending and grass-mowing. They are well-loved and well looked after by their neighbors.

I thank him, apprise him of Mother's condition, ask him in for coffee; he politely declines, saying he must get back to his ovens. He is still wearing his flour-dusted apron; he smells of fresh yeast.

Mother is entranced by the flowers, and I place them on the table in front of her. She inhales deeply of their perfume; her sense of smell is still quite functional. Mama gets up and places the loaves in the breadbox; one for tonight's supper, the other for, perhaps, _pain perdue_ in the morning.

It's time for Mother's nap. I pull her wheelchair from under the table, but she reaches for the vase of flowers, so I let her hold it with her left arm while I wheel her back to their bedroom. Mama follows me, and together we help Mother into bed; it's warm, she needs no covers. The flowers go on the night table next to her.

I kiss Mother, wish her a comfortable sleep, and go out so that they can have a quiet moment together. Mama usually lies in the bed with Mother on these afternoons, her arms around her wife gently, lovingly. I thank all powers that at last I have an inkling of how that feels, to be touching someone you love so intensely. It is the best feeling in the world.

Before I am out of the room, I hear Mama call to me. "Angela?" I turn. Mother holds up her left hand, her fingers are wiggling rhythmically. Mama interprets: "Would you play a little? You know how it relaxes her."

Of course, I tell her, and she gives me her luminous smile. She lays her head on Mother's shoulder, and closes her eyes. I close the blind. If they sleep through our normal supper hour, no one will suffer.

I sit at the piano, and a piece from Chopin enters my mind. I play that, and other restful pieces, for a good hour. I go into the bedroom, and they are both sound asleep. I check on Mother; she is breathing regularly, and her heartbeat is strong (if I can take the heartbeat of a sleeping child without waking her, I can certainly do so for my own Mother!) All is well. I watch them sleep. Mama cuddled into Mother's left shoulder, a beatific smile on her lips. As they should be.

Then I sit and read, and meditate on how fine my life has been, how Mother and Mama were the best parents anyone could ever hope for, and how their strengths – and weaknesses – launched me into a wonderful life of my own.

I will truly miss them when they are gone.


End file.
